


The truth

by cuneifire



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 20th Century, Cold War, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Ideology, Implied/Referenced Amnesia, Politics, Vietnam War
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-02
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-06-01 11:52:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,116
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15142484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuneifire/pseuds/cuneifire
Summary: “We just have to make them more like us.” America says with a smile, and Canada does not know why his glasses are cracked.





	The truth

America’s papers are spread out on Canada’s desk, and Canada blinks. His brother down towards him. The clouded light from the overcast day shines from behind his eyes.

                Canada tilts his head.

“What are you doing here.” He only half asks, meeting America’s gaze uncertainly. America smiles, eyes wide as he shoves off the edge of the desk.

                “Oh hey, Canada, didn’t notice you there!” He says.

“You never notice me.” Canada grumbles, taking his seat and staring down at the papers on his desk, wishing he could see what they read better.

                “Hey! I notice you! Just… not all the time.” America says, readjusting his glasses so they aren’t tilted anymore.The light shines on them weirdly, Canada thinks before his thoughts stop. 

He notices the pistol at America's hip. “What is it?” He asks, trying to sift through all the paperwork on all the paperwork dumped onto his desk.

America taps his fingers against the papers, bright half smile apparent on his features. “I… Well, my boss wanted to ask you how you feel about the war.”

Canada pauses. “Which one?”

America rolls his eyes. “The one I’m part of.”

“I repeat; which one?”

“Vietnam.”

“Oh.”  Canada says, hands freezing over the papers.

America’s gaze snaps to his; Canada eyes go to the window, the clouded light of the outside day the only source of light in the room.

“I’m sorry, you’ll have to ask my boss.” He says, shoving back the feeling and questions that linger in his mind.

                “What?” America asks, bewildered.

Canada shakes his head, sighing and dropping his wrist limply to the papers in America’s hand, pulling them towards him. “I’m just… Here, I’ll look at these things later, alright?”

“My boss says we need them as soon as possible.”

                Canada pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head.  

“I’m sorry America, I really have stuff to do…”

“You’re just putting it off, aren’t you?” America says, gaze snapping up to Canada’s.

                Canada blinks. “What?”

“You don’t know what you want to do, so you’re putting off talking to me. I know you’re avoiding me, Canada. Why do you keep doing that?” His voice edges on something less than amiable.

                Canada pauses. “America, what?”

“You keep shrugging me off like I’m not there or something.” He says.

                “Why can’t you just tell me? Am I really so unimportant you can’t tell me what you think?”

 _Where the fuck did that come from._ Canada thought, leaving aside the obvious irony. Because it wasn’t like his whole world depended on his brother or anything- his economy, his protection, any of his land trades routes- America wasn’t important to him, ha. What comedy.

“What?” Canada shakes his head, barely believing his eyes.

                “America, I don’t know. I can’t tell you what I think about your war because I don’t know!”

America leans forwards on his desk. ‘ _And how is that, Canada?’_ “But do you?” And Canada can see it in his eyes, that glint he’d get whenever he looked at Russia and- _holy fuck does he think I’m working for Ivan-_ and-

“Why are you doing this?” Canada asks, wrenching his shoulders back, staring up at his brother with stiff posture that in a way reminds him of England. _I wonder what England-_ no, he’s not that anymore.  

                America looks over him, tilting his head. Hos glasses are askew, little fractures and cracks in the clear glass. 

“What do you mean why am I doing this?” America’s eyes glaze over as his gaze settles on Canada, and Canada resists the urge to shiver.

                “I mean…” Canada stumbles over, trying to make the words work in his mind.

“You’re guilting-“ He cuts himself off before asking, but his brother seems to think it a different way.

                “Haven’t you seen it, Canada? What they do to their people? What happens wh- if we lose these wars?” America spits out, fiery eyes filled with conviction, fingers curling into fists over Canada’s wrists, ink splayed under their joined hands like writing in blood.

“But…”

                “But what?” His brother repeats, the hand not over Canada’s slamming against the table. “Communism is inexcusable, Canada, and I can’t- _won’t_ let them win.”

And then Canada blinks, and he can see it, piece it together. The redness in America’s eyes, that little nick of a knife on his chin, how Canada can call him a three in the morning and his brother will without a doubt be awake. 

                “America.” Canada says, trying to piece together, how him, his brother, seems to be falling apart right in front of him. He tries to reach forwards, just a bit, only to remember his hand is pinned.

America meets his gaze for a half second, voice catching on some word that never forms. Because then he stops, and his eyes go steely.

“Canada.” He says, and Canada hasn’t heard his voice sound like that since eighteen twelve.

                “Canada.” He repeats, and Canada watches a grin twist up on his brother’s face, crooked and slight, a mockery of a smile.

“It’s alright.” He finally says, smiling.  “We just have to make them more like us. See the light, you know.” He flips the (American, of course) nickel resting on his nail, and watching it tumble on Canada desk. It lands face down. Red burns in his brother’s eyes.

                Canada looks up. There’s a crack in America’s glasses, a crack in the looks his brother sends him now, a crack in the foundation.

Canada swallows, hands half shaking. He’s never been good at this- not in the years that’ve passed- _in telling his brother no._  

“I…”

                “Your people don’t want to help?” America says, and Canada looks up.

“It’s more than that.” He says, meeting his brother’s eyes, almost holding his gaze.

America shakes his head. “You’ve always been weak.” His fingers run over the nickel. “Never make up your mind for yourself, always wait for me or England’s word… Like that time I burned down Kingston and you came after me, remember that?”

Canada pauses, eyes going wide.

 “America, that was York.” He says.

                America freezes.

“York. Yeah. That’s what I said, isn’t it?” He says, posture stiffening up as he slides a finger over the nickel and tosses it in his pocket, pressing the gun to the cold metal of the desk. He raises his gaze to Canada’s, daring him to question.

                “Wait…”

“Anyways, here’s the papers. Tell me what you’re going to do. If you make up your mind.” _If you ever do_ was implied. Canada grimaced. But still.

“America, what was that about York-“

But the door had already slammed shut, leaving Canada with nothing but a loaded gun and questions.

**Author's Note:**

> Notes  
> -Unlike many of the US' other allies (such as the UK), Canada did not send men to fight in the Vietnam War, instead opting to have peacekeeping missions there. Many Americans emigrated to Canada to avoid the draft.  
> -The White House was burned in 1812 as retaliation for the American burning of the city of York (now Toronto). Kingston was the capital city of Canada before Ottawa, and was moved due to being basically directly across the border when animosity ran high between the two countries. 
> 
> hope you enjoyed! feedback is always appreciated!


End file.
